


Logic and Proportion

by DeliriumsDelight7



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: During Evil Queen | Regina Mills's First Dark Curse, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:47:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25964602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeliriumsDelight7/pseuds/DeliriumsDelight7
Summary: Takes place during Regina's Dark Curse, long before Emma shows up in town.  Canon compliant.Jefferson wakes up alone in a strange bed, with two sets of memories in his head.  He struggles to figure out what is happening, while dealing with conflicting realities and a daughter who is terrified of him.
Relationships: Grace | Paige & Mad Hatter | Jefferson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was just a random plot bunny that popped into my head today. It probably won't be long - five chapters at most - since this is just a telling of what Jefferson may have gotten up to during the first curse. Main focus will be on him; any pairings or other characters will not be getting tons of screen time.
> 
> Title shamelessly lifted from Jefferson Airplane's "White Rabbit."

Jefferson woke in his bed with a blinding headache, a dry mouth, and a noose wrapped loosely around his neck.

Wait. That wasn’t right. This wasn’t the closet-sized bedroom in the cottage where he’d raised his Grace. Nor was it the cot tucked in the corner of the workshop where he’d tirelessly - obsessively - created tens of thousands of hats, begging each one to please, just once, just one  _ fucking _ time, please...  _ work _ . 

No, this bedroom was opulent. Gaudy, even. His entire cottage could have fit in this bedroom. Hell, the bed alone would comfortably sleep a family of five, and the silk bedding would keep them all fed for well over a year. So where…?

A sharp pain throbbed behind his eyes, and he remembered. He was Jefferson Carroll, renowned fashion designer. This mansion in the woods on the outskirts of Storybrooke had been his home for… how long? Everything was blurry, running together like swirls of wet paint. He was Jefferson, loving father and widower. No, he was Jefferson, lifelong bachelor, on the run from a life of drug-fuelled parties that had left him so strung out that he’d lost track of reality and tried to hang himself.

He shook his head in the vain hope of dislodging one of the two sets of memories that ravaged his brain. Both held fast, gripping him somewhere behind his eyes. Pushing himself out of bed, he staggered to the water closet - bathroom, one half of his mind supplied - and purged the contents of his stomach into the toilet. Every heave and retch put pressure on his overburdened head, threatening to burst it like an overripe melon. The end of the rope tied around his neck trailed in the filthy water. He pulled the noose up over his head with a disgusted sound, chucking it across the room.

He had to figure out what was going on, and that sure as hell wasn’t going to happen if he stayed cooped up in this bedroom all day. He quickly threw on a dove gray button-down shirt, not bothering to button it all the way up or change out of his pajama pants. Outside his house there was a horseless carriage - car - and with a start he realized that he’d instinctively grabbed the keys on the way out. Getting in, buckling up, and starting the ignition was as natural as breathing, and driving into town was second nature to him. Part of him marveled at the speed at which he was moving, and the strange smooth black cobbling of the roads, but the other half of him was unimpressed.

When he pulled into Storybrooke proper, both Jeffersons found a foreign landscape. Bachelor Jefferson was accustomed to sprawling metropolises with impossibly tall buildings, housing tens of thousands of people from all walks of life. Jefferson the father recalled dense forests broken up by quaint little hamlets filled with thatch-roofed cottages, where the most bustling bazaar might boast a hundred shoppers with coin to spend. Storybrooke, with its small family-owned shops and modern conveniences, was somewhere in the middle.

Parking the car on the street, Jefferson wandered aimlessly, turning in endless circles to take everything in. People everywhere were walking about as if nothing was wrong. A scantily-clad girl with streaks of scarlet in her straight black hair flipped a sign at the local diner to Open while a familiar looking blond man surreptitiously ogled her legs. A woman with a black pixie cut read a large, brown, leather-bound book as she walked, straightening her cardigan absently. A group of seven short yet stoutly-built men bickered loudly on the sidewalk before splitting off in different directions.

Everyone looked absolutely miserable.

Jefferson made an about-face without looking, abruptly colliding with a red-haired man in a tweed jacket. The man’s umbrella clattered to the sidewalk.

“Oh! Pardon me,” the shorter man said, bending down to pick up his umbrella.

Jefferson waved off the apology. “My fault. I should’ve looked where I was going.”

“No harm done; that’s the important thing.” Straightening his back, he extended his hand to Jefferson with a smile. A smile that faltered when he saw the - decapitation? Hanging? - scar on his neck. His own voice echoed in his head:  _ I’m alive! _ Shit. He should have covered that up. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. My name’s Archie Hopper. I’m the town therapist.”

He reached out and shook the proffered hand. “Jefferson. Uh, Jefferson Carroll.”

“Oh, you’re the one who lives in the mansion just outside town, right?”

“Uh, right.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jefferson.” In a quieter voice, Archie continued. “Listen, if you ever need to talk about something, or get anything off my chest, my door is always open.”

“Right. Sure. You too, I guess.” It wasn’t until Archie rounded a corner that Jefferson put two and two together. His first five minutes in down, and the town therapist already thought he was a suicide risk. Wonderful.

Even more unsettling - in his current mental state, he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t.

He continued taking in the town - strange faces inside foreign shops in an alien landscape - for the next few hours. This whole town had the feel of a dog that had been kicked too many times - weary and downtrodden, but with a thrumming tension under the surface, just waiting to burst. 

It wasn’t until nearly 3PM that Jefferson saw another soul that seemed to be aware of her surroundings. A woman with tanned skin, dark eyes and pitch black hair cut to her shoulders was meandering the streets, turning her head this way and that just as he’d done a few hours ago. Only where his expression had been shocked confusion, this woman wore the delighted smile of a child in a confectioner’s shop. Both halves of his mind supplied a name at the same time.

_ Mayor Mills. _

_ Queen Regina. _

As if his thoughts summoned her, Regina’s eyes landed on Jefferson, and her smile grew. She strode toward him with purpose, her heeled pumps clacking on the sidewalk with each step.

“Regina,” Jefferson greeted.

“Why Jefferson, I’m flattered that you remember me.” Her eyes flickered up and down his form. “But my oh my, you seem a bit under the weather. Did you wake up with a  _ splitting _ headache this morning?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” Was that emphasis deliberate, or was he just imagining things.

“Such a pity. I’ve heard a cup of tea can work wonders for such things.” Her smile turned more predatory - eyes narrowing and teeth bared. “But a headache is no excuse for bad manners. Everyone else in this town calls me by my title, and I must insist that you do the same.”

Did she know what was happening in his head? Was she aware that there were two realities, each fighting for dominance? Or was this woman just so arrogant that she needed everyone in town to remind her of her position? His common sense told him it was the latter. Stories of evil witches and magic hats certainly couldn’t be trusted.

His instincts, however…

“My apologies… Your Majesty.” Were he in a better mood, he might have flourished a mocking bow. 

“So you do remember. Good.” What he wouldn’t give to wipe that smug smirk off her face.

“What did you do to me?” he demanded. “There are all these memories in my head that aren’t mine. Did you curse me?”

“I only did to you what I did to all of the Enchanted Forest.” Regina made a show of checking her perfectly polished nails for flaws. “In fact, you’re the only one - other than myself, that is - whose memories are still intact. You should be thanking me.”

“ _ Thanking _ you? For making me live with two men in my head?” His hands shot out and grabbed her shoulders, shaking her a little. “For ripping me from the one hope I ever had of getting back to Grace? For separating me from Grace in the first place? Tell me,  _ Your Majesty _ , exactly what should I be grateful for?”

“Why, for bringing the two of you together, of course.” She looked significantly over his shoulder. “I thought a year in Wonderland might make the heart grow fonder. Was I wrong?”

Releasing his grip on the queen, Jefferson turned. An enormous, elongated yellow car - a school bus - had stopped across the street, and kids in school uniforms were piling out. One girl in particular stood out. He’d know that head of hair anywhere. 

“Grace?” His feet pulled him, step by step, across the street, until he was running toward her with all his speed. He caught his daughter in a bear hug, spinning her around. Her happy shrieks pierced his eardrums, making his head throb even worse, and it was the best pain he’d experienced in his life. “Oh my gods, Grace! I finally found you!”

Gradually he realized that she was struggling, shoving against his shoulders frantically. “Let me go!” she screamed, beating her little fists against him. “Help! Someone help me!”

“Grace, what’s wrong?” He put her down, kneeling in front of her and gripping her gently yet firmly by the shoulders. She still struggled, terrified tears streaming down her face. “Gracie, it’s me. It’s your Papa.”

“No, no, let me go! You’re not my dad! Please, someone help!”

Before he could say anything to reassure her, another man’s voice interrupted. “Freeze!” A strange clicking sound - that of a gun being cocked - warned Jefferson to act carefully. Looking up over his daughter’s head, he saw a man with curly, sandy-brown hair wearing a leather jacket and a sheriff’s badge. And pointing a pistol at him. “Let the girl go,” the man’s lightly accented voice continued.

“This is just a misunderstanding, Sheriff,” Jefferson said. “I’m just picking up my daughter, Grace.”

“I don’t think so,” the sheriff disagreed. “That’s Paige Milliner, and I know for a fact that she isn’t your daughter. If you let her go now and agree to stay away from her, I’ll let you off with a warning just this once.”

Jefferson set his jaw. “And if I refuse?” he asked.

“Then I’ll be forced to subdue you through any means necessary. Including lethal force, if I need to. Is that something you want to put Paige through?”

“Her name isn’t Paige, it’s  _ Grace _ !” He slowly started backing away from the sheriff, holding his arms protectively over his daughter. He had to believe that the man wouldn’t open fire. Surely he could see that Jefferson meant no harm.

Before he got far, pain exploded through him. He crumpled to the ground, hands gently grasping his groin where Grace had kneed him. His daughter bolted down the street, fleeing around a corner. Before he could gather himself enough to rise to his feet, he felt his arms being yanked behind his back. 

“Right,” the curly-haired man said. “Looks like we’re doing this the hard way. A night in the holding cell should cool you off.”

"No,” he breathed. He elbowed the sheriff in the face, feeling his nose break with a sickening  _ crunch _ . “No! I need to get to Grace! She needs me! I left her once, I can’t leave her again! I--”

Something prodded his side, and his entire body seized up as though struck by lightning. As he fell he tried to catch himself, but his hands were still cuffed behind his back. His head struck the sidewalk, and everything went black.

******

Jefferson woke in his bed with a blinding headache, a dry mouth, and a noose wrapped loosely around his neck.

He groaned into his silk pillowcase, gingerly cupping his aching balls and vaguely wishing for death. A sharp pain throbbed behind his eyes, and he remembered. He was Jefferson Carroll, renowned fashion designer. This mansion in the woods on the outskirts of Storybrooke had been his home for… how long? Everything was blurry, running together like swirls of wet paint. He was Jefferson, lifelong bachelor, on the run from a life of drug-fuelled parties that had left him so strung out that he’d lost track of reality and tried to hang himself. No - that wasn’t right at all. He was Jefferson, loving father and widower. He was sure of it. But the way Grace had looked at him yesterday…

Yesterday. The town. The queen. Grace. His arrest. The miserable night spent sharing a holding cell with a bearded drunk whose snores sounded like logs being sawed. He didn’t want to face that reality today. Maybe if he went back to sleep, he’d find out that this was all a dream. He’d wake up in a cottage with his Grace. Or in his hat-filled workshop. Or in his suite in Milan, blood pumping with the drug of the day, balls deep in some hot young thing who had always  _ dreamed _ of being a model.

But the light streaming through his damask curtains wouldn’t be denied. He rolled over, luxuriating in the smooth slide of silk over his skin.

Wait a minute. Silk? He should be in a holding cell, nose wrinkling at the smell of his cellmate’s sour whiskey sweat. His eyes cracked open, wincing as the light shone through… his bedroom window.

What the hell was going on?

His mind was warring with itself again. Part of him - the half that took pleasure in fine silks, and drugs, and burying himself in the body of young twenty-somethings just waiting to be  _ discovered _ \- told him that he’d spent the night in his mansion. He’d had a glass of scotch, made some sketches for next season’s vogue, put the noose around his neck as a reminder that all of this - the luxury, the fame,  _ life itself _ \- was transient. He took comfort in it.

The other part of him remembered a small town in Maine. It remembered the heartbreak of frightening his daughter, the agony of a taser in his side, the blinding flash of the camera making his head throb worse than it already had, and the lumpy mattress in his cell. That part of him told tales of strange lands, of magic spells and fantastic creatures and mirrors that can’t be trusted. Of a scaled wizard paying him a king’s ransom of spun gold for his services, all while directing his attention away from the pretty maid who served their tea. 

Rumpelstiltskin. He had to find Rumpelstiltskin. It was impossible to believe that the Evil Queen had bested the Dark One, but she had said that the entire Enchanted Forest had been cursed. If anyone could find a way to break it, it was the Dark One.

He dressed with more care today - putting on tight pants that gave his leather trousers in the Enchanted Forest a run for their money, a pale purple shirt, and a charcoal waistcoat. A silk scarf covered the ugly scar at his neck.

The drive to town was just as uneventful as yesterday’s (if that had happened at all). The people on the street reassured him somewhat. The girl in the hotpants being gawked at by the blond man sipping his coffee. The meek, fair woman with her nose buried in a leatherbound book. The seven men arguing loudly outdoors for all to hear. He didn’t make it up. Yesterday had happened. He watched with quiet relief as the town’s sheriff came to break up the argument.

Jefferson winced. Graham Humbert, his mind supplied from last night. With his scruffy stubble and wild curls, the man managed to pull off that “just rolled out of bed” look that had always eluded Jefferson. In one of his lives, anyway. The sheriff caught his eye and gave a friendly wave.

Jefferson waved back hesitantly, a feeling of dread rising in the pit of his stomach. Sheriff Humbert didn’t seem to recognize him. Even more alarming - where he’d been sporting a crooked nose and two black eyes last night, the policeman’s face was now straight and unblemished.

That should be cause for relief. It meant that he hadn’t been arrested, hadn’t somehow managed to escape a holding cell and become a fugitive, and best of all, he hadn’t terrified his daughter yesterday. But it also meant that he couldn’t trust his mind. He couldn’t trust the part that told him he’d never left the house; clearly he had, because he’d seen these people, these streets, these shops before. But he couldn’t trust the part that had been here, because it made up things that hadn’t happened.

Panic churned in his belly, gripped his chest, thickened his throat to choke him. He spun on one heel, and promptly slammed into a red-haired man. An umbrella clattered to the sidewalk. 

“Oh! Pardon me,” Archie Hopper said, bending down to pick up his umbrella.

“S-sorry,” Jefferson stammered.  _ Keep it together. You’ve got to keep it together. _ “Seems like I keep bumping into you like this.”

“Oh?” The shorter man straightened, dusting off his umbrella. “How so?”

“I… I bumped into you yesterday,” he said. “Just like this. Knocked over your umbrella and everything.”

Archie frowned. “No, I don’t believe so,” he disagreed gently. “I don’t believe you and I have had the pleasure. My name’s--”

“Archie Hopper. The town therapist.”

“Yyyyes.” Archie looked at him uncertainly. “So we have met. Maybe I just forgot.” 

“Doctor Hopper,” a woman’s voice interrupted. The therapist flinched at Regina’s voice, shoulders hunching as he retreated into himself. “Don’t you have a practice you should be running? Telling everyone how they should live their lives?”

“Y-yes. Of course, Madam Mayor. Good day.” Archie scuttled off like a cockroach exposed to the light.

That smile had returned to Regina’s face - the one with the cruel gleam. “So, Jefferson, I heard you had a brush with the local law enforcement yesterday.” She turned and strolled slowly down the sidewalk, beckoning him to follow. “Something about an attempted kidnapping?”

“You know exactly what happened. You were there,” he snarled. “What did you do to her, Regina? Why can’t my Grace remember me?”

Regina made a show of shrugging, palms up at her sides. “Why doesn’t the insect remember his vaunted calling? Why does the wolf act like it belongs in a cathouse? Why do the sanctimonious little gnats still insist on preaching when they now call to a power that doesn’t answer?”

“Spare me the riddles. Cut the crap and tell me what you did,” Jefferson growled. “Whatever it is, it works differently for me. Nobody else remembers anything that happened yesterday, but I do.”

“And you’re so sure that your memories are reliable?” Regina chuckled. “You seem so sure that you’re the only rational one in a town that can’t remember. But are you  _ certain _ that you’re not a lone madman in a town of ordinary people?”

He wasn’t, damn her, but he couldn’t let her know that. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this. And when I find out how this curse, or illusion, or whatever it is can be broken, I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure you get what’s coming to you.” 

The queen’s grin didn’t so much as flicker. “We shall see. In the meantime, I have other things to be doing. A mayor’s work never ends, you know.” 

Jefferson watched her go, his heart sinking in his chest. Shit. He’d talked a big game to Regina, hoping that maybe she’d reveal some sort of… of weakness, or something, that he could look into. But she’d been utterly confident that he would fail. 

He was just one man. One man with a head full of false memories, unable to tell which - if any - were real. He needed help. He needed Rumpelstiltskin. 

If he existed.


	2. Chapter 2

Jefferson woke in his bed with a blinding headache, a dry mouth, and a noose wrapped loosely around his neck.

Unsticking his tongue from the roof of his parched palate, he endured the daily nausea and disorientation as his two minds struggled for dominance as he always did - with eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched, and a pained groan that was increasingly tinged with frustration and, of all things, boredom. Every morning. Every  _ fucking _ morning, for the past three weeks - give or take - he woke up to a pair of incompatible memories grappling with each other, unable to do more than stagger to the toilet and puke his guts out until one personality won out.

Some days, Jefferson the father won out, and he spent the day wandering Storybrooke in search of a sorcerer who may or may not help him (may or may not exist). So far, his efforts had been fruitless. 

Some days, Carroll - as he’d taken to calling the other half of himself - triumphed, and he spent the day sequestered in his mansion, day drinking and longing for some more exotic substance to put in his system. Occasionally he designed and sewed some new creation. Not hats - never hats. And if on those days he pointed a telescope at a kitchen window to observe a certain happy family sitting down for dinner, well. That had nothing to do with the weeping man in his head crying for a daughter that didn’t exist. He was just intrigued by the domesticity of the scene.

Today, Jefferson was the victor. To his relief he managed to hold onto the contents of his stomach. Maybe today would be a good day.

His morning routine was now a rote exercise. Take the noose off and throw it away (it would just be right back around his neck in the morning, but that didn’t mean he had to look at the thing). Shower, shave, brush his teeth, style his hair. Get dressed in an outfit that suited his life in the Enchanted Forest far more than the typical wardrobe in this miserable little hamlet. Get in the car and choke down some semblance of breakfast while he drove. And continue his search.

The first place he’d checked, weeks ago, was the local pawn shop:  _ Mr. Gold Pawnbroker & Antiquities Dealer _ . The name was so ridiculously on the nose, considering the Dark One’s inclination for turning straw to spools of the precious metal, that at first Jefferson had balked at venturing inside. But a peek through the windows had revealed a veritable treasure trove of oddments, antiques, baubles, and even weapons, all lovingly displayed like a

_ Magpie’s nest _ , Carroll supplied.

_ Dragon’s hoard _ , Jefferson insisted.

...so reminiscent of the Dark Castle that he’d simply had to go inside. Perusing the wares on display had convinced him that he’d found the right place. Daggers that were clearly Enchanted Forest make were displayed right next to this world’s sorry substitute for offensive spells (“guns,” according to Carroll). There was other evidence as well - magic lamps, dwarven steins, and the like. His heart had leapt to his throat as he heard the heavy tread of the shop’s proprietor emerging from the back of the shop, convinced that his search was over nearly as soon as it had begun.

Instead of the overdressed imp, though, he’d been greeted by a veritable giant of a man with an unpleasant frown. His bald pate gleamed in the low light of the shop, the only point of light in his enormous, black-clad form. His crossed arms and wide-planted stance hardly conveyed the image of a welcoming shop-owner, and Jefferson had found himself stammering apologies and ducking back out the door.

The many other places he’d explored had proved just as fruitless. The school was his next stop. The idea of the Dark One as a schoolteacher was as ludicrous as the idea of an ogre with eyeglasses, but his own history with Rumpelstiltskin suggested an affinity for children. No luck there, either, but he’d found where the black-haired woman with the pixie cut worked. Not that that did him any good.

On and on he’d searched. The butcher,  _ This Little Piggy _ . The baker,  _ The Muffin Man _ . The candlestick maker,  _ Jack Be Nimble _ (and why did a town with electric lighting need so many handmade candles, anyway?).  _ This Old Man’s Knick-Knacks _ .  _ Miss Muffet Runs a-Whey _ , the gym. Even the plant nursery,  _ Lavender’s Blue _ , though he’d witnessed first-hand Rumpelstiltskin’s tendency to blast any flowers in sight to cinders.

The library had seemed like the last likely place. Rumpelstiltskin acquired knowledge nearly as enthusiastically as he acquired his coveted  _ things _ . Jefferson also had vague memories of a brief, six-month period when a pretty brunette walked the halls of the Dark Castle, when books tended to pile up on every flat surface in the main hall. On more than one occasion, the Dark One had scolded and blustered at the girl as she read in a quiet corner. Rather than being cowed at the ire of the most evil mage in the realm, she’d rolled her eyes with a tolerant smile and served tea to her master and his guest. Rumpelstiltskin’s flourishes and giggles always took on a frantic energy, then, a futile attempt at misdirection from the growing softness in his eyes. If he couldn’t find his old associate, maybe he could find the one person who seemed to care for him. Maybe that would be a step in the right direction.

That was a  _ big _ maybe.

Jefferson had checked on the library just two days ago (yesterday being a wasted “Carroll day”), and had found the building boarded up and locked. Of course, that was hardly an obstacle to a talented thief such as himself. He didn’t have access to his old set of lockpicking tools, but he did have a wallet and access to a hardware store. One stop later, he was busily prying away the half-rotted boards from the window that saw the least street traffic. 

The abandoned building was yet another disappointment. Apart from the shelves filled with unfamiliar books, the building was completely empty. He checked the stacks, the caretaker’s apartment on the second floor, and even the top floor with the frozen clock in the hopes that the strange little man was lurking up there like some deformed bell-ringer hidden away from the public eye. No luck. And of course, the boards and windows he’d smashed to bits two days before were restored to their former state now.

He wandered for hours, dipping in and out of stores hoping to find some clue about the dark wizard. When his stomach growled, reminding him that all he’d eaten was a cereal bar hours before, he decided to drop in for a bite to eat at Granny’s Diner. The service wasn’t great - the leggy brunette waitress seemed determined to thaw the chill left behind by her grandmother’s strict manner by “accidentally” dropping her pen next to him and making a show of bending over to retrieve it - but the food was homier and more nourishing than anything he made for himself at home.

Upon entering the diner, Jefferson immediately noticed a change in the proprietress’s demeanor. Her eyes, usually narrowed in disapproval (at her granddaughter, at customers who didn’t tip, or at anyone she simply didn’t like) were wide with fear, and no wonder; the hulking form of Mr. Gold loomed over her, dwarfing the other patrons and the elderly widow. Granny procured a fat roll of bills and handed it, not to the massive man in front of her, but to a slighter, shaggy-haired fellow a little off to the side. 

“It’s all here, Mr. Gold.” The attempt at projecting her voice to put off an aura of self-assuredness was ruined by the slight quaver she didn’t quite suppress.

“Yes, yes, of course it is, dear, thank you.” 

Jefferson did a double-take. This was Mr. Gold? The man who had the entire town utterly cowed? The one people only spoken of in whispers? The enormous brute behind him was far more intimidating Despite his well-cut suits and ornate cane, Mr. Gold didn’t seem that impressive. He walked with a limp, for one thing. And with his slight frame, crooked teeth and long nose, he…

Wait.

Slowly circling around, hoping to avoid undue notice, Jefferson took a closer look at the landlord in profile. Longish hair. Pointed nose. Thin lips in a wide-set mouth. A predilection for expensive clothing. If he squinted, he could imagine the man’s curly hair and green-gray skin.

Rumpelstiltskin.

His hunger forgotten, he followed Rumpelstiltskin out of the diner, keeping back about twenty paces to see what the man would do. He seemed to be in no particular hurry, perfectly content to stroll unaccompanied through the empty streets, leaning heavily on his cane with every other step. He wasn’t heading towards his shop; that was in the other direction. So where…?

Suddenly, a pair of huge, meaty hands reached out from the alley as Jefferson passed, grabbing him by the shoulders and slamming him into the brick wall. His head hit the wall with a sickening  _ crack _ that reverberated through his skull. The breath left his lungs with a sharp whoosh. Shaking his head to clear it, he stared right into the eyes of the giant man who must be the Dark One’s hired muscle. Fuck, how had the man disappeared so quickly? And how hadn’t Jefferson noticed?

“Thank you, Dove.” The slighter man stepped into Jefferson’s line of sight, regarding him with a smirk that sent a familiar shiver of fear tripping down his spine. It was the smirk of a man who knew that he held all the cards, and was only letting you play the game to serve his own ends. It was a smirk he was well familiar with. “You know, if you’re going to follow a man so you can mug him, you might want to wear something less conspicuous,” he advised.

“Seriously? Do I look like a guy who’s hurting for money?” He gestured down to his designer clothes, the Italian leather shoes, and the handmade silk scarf that covered the scar at his throat. 

“Perhaps not,” the shorter man allowed. “Though I do know precious little about you, Mr. Carroll. You’re not one of my tenants, and you’re not in my debt. I’m not privy to your financial situation. For all I know, you’re on the verge of destitution.”

“I’m not.”

“As you say.” Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes locked with his own, and though the irises were a normal brown shade, they were no less unsettling. “But I know that a desperate soul can be driven to deeds he would otherwise never dream of. One can’t be too careful.” He gave a slight nod to the bear of man, who relinquished his hold on Jefferson’s lapels. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m a very busy man, and I have places to be.” He turned his back and started back toward the mouth of the alleyway.

Panic welled up in Jefferson’s chest. It had taken  _ weeks _ to find Rumpelstiltskin, and that had only happened by chance. He couldn’t let the imp slide through his fingers. “Wait!” he cried. 

The other man stopped, but didn’t turn back around. “Yes?”

“I…” Shit. He’d swore never to utter this phrase in the Dark One’s presence again. But he had no choice. “I want to make a deal.”

“People rarely  _ want _ to make a deal with me.”

“Yeah, well, like you said. Desperation can make a man do crazy things.”

“Truer words were never spoken, Mr. Carroll. Alas, today is rent day, and I’ve other stops to make. Perhaps we could meet tomorrow.”

Tomorrow was unacceptable, as far as Jefferson was concerned. He still couldn’t tell whether Rumpelstiltskin had his memories or not. He couldn’t risk waiting until tomorrow and being unable to find a man who had no memory of their previous meeting. “I can’t wait that long,” he insisted. “We can meet now, or later tonight, or whenever, but it has to be today.”

Rumpelstiltskin regarded him with a long, unblinking stare, and Jefferson was struck by the notion that, despite his lack of scales and overlarge irises, the sorcerer seemed more reptilian than ever. In the Enchanted Forest, the imp’s mood had been mercurial: conniving one moment, tempestuous the next, changing with whatever direction his internal winds blew in the moment. This Mr. Gold was practically cold-blooded in comparison.

“Very well,” he finally agreed. “Dove, I trust you can secure the remainder of the rent payments without me?” The bulky goon nodded, leaving the alley without a word. “If you’ll accompany me back to my office, Mr. Carroll, perhaps we can come to an agreement.”

The two men walked side by side back to the pawn shop without a word. Jefferson had to make a conscious effort to shorten his stride to accommodate both Rumpelstiltskin’s shorter gait and his limp. Soon enough they were inside the shop, and Rumpelstiltskin was locking the door behind them.

“Now, how can I help you, Mr. Carroll? You assure me that your finances are in order, so I assume there’s some other reason you urgently need my help.”

Jefferson took a fortifying breath. This was it. The moment of truth. The sole contingency he’d been working toward for nearly a month. If anyone could overcome this - this curse, or  _ whatever _ Regina had done to them, it was the Dark One himself. “I need to know how you plan to take care of Regina,” he said without preamble.

Rumpelstiltskin blinked. “Whatever do you mean?” he asked softly.

“I mean this power that she holds over the entire town! What are you going to do to get rid of her?” he demanded.

Rumpelstiltskin walked past him with an amused scoff. “While the rumors of my past as some sort of mafioso are amusing, I regret to inform you that they are indeed false. I’ve no intention of making our esteemed mayor… what’s the phrase? ‘Sleep with the fishes.’” 

“That’s not what I mean, Rumpelstiltskin, and you know it,” Jefferson snapped. “Now tell me how you’re going to break the curse.” 

“I’m not sure what you mean,” the Dark One said neutrally, his eyes revealing nothing.

“Stop it! Stop with the act! I  _ know _ you wouldn’t let that evil bitch get the better of you!” Jefferson’s voice rose as he grew increasingly frantic, but he didn’t care. One should never tip their cards to the Dark One, but if Rumpelstiltskin refused to admit what he knew, then Jefferson had no choice. He dropped to his knees, clasping his hands. “Do you want me to  _ beg _ ? I’ll do it! I’ll do anything. Just please,  _ please _ , tell me you’re going to end this.”

Rumpelstiltskin stared at him for a long moment. “Why don’t you come to the back and explain things from the beginning,” he offered.

With a spark of hope, Jefferson rose back to his feet. This must be it! Rumpelstiltskin was nothing if not thorough. Every plan he laid always had a backup, a contingency, and an emergency provision. And usually a back door to escape through if none of those failsafes worked. Clearly he’d counted on Regina’s particularly cruel vengeance against Jefferson, and was relying on him to restore his memories.

Once situated in the back room’s rickety wooden chairs, Jefferson told Rumpelstiltskin everything, from the early days of their association up to Regina’s curse and his daily struggle against his own mind. He had no evidence but the decapitation (hanging?) scar around his neck, but he loosened his scarf and revealed it. Eventually, he lapsed into silence.

Rumpelstiltskin was looking at him like he had two heads.  _ In a way, I do _ , he thought ruefully.

“That’s… quite the tale,” Rumpelstiltskin admitted. “Normally I’d recommend that you schedule a session with our illustrious Dr. Hopper, but I fear that this town has a less than enlightened view on mental health.”

This couldn’t be happening. Jefferson had been prepared for the disappointment of never finding Rumpelstiltskin, but nothing had readied him for finding the man enslaved just like the rest. The idea of the Dark One’s hot-headed protege getting one over on him was so ridiculous that Jefferson hadn’t entertained the notion for a moment. It was obvious to him that the imp must have the means to either avoid the curse altogether, or possibly negate the part of it that took his memories. How on earth had she managed to dupe him into falling victim to the same curse that ensnared everyone else from their world?

If even Rumpelstiltskin was trapped, then it was truly hopeless.

He only had one gambit left. There was one name that would shake the Dark One’s composure. “What about Belle?” he asked. “Don’t you want to save her from this… this hell?”

“My apologies, Mr. Carroll, but the name doesn’t ring a… well.” Brushing imaginary lint from his immaculate trousers, Rumpelstiltskin - Mr. Gold, rather - rose to his feet. “I believe you’ve wasted enough of my time for one day. If you’ll excuse me.” 

Jefferson walked numbly to the door, not registering when the pawnbroker escorted him out. That was it. That was his one plan to best Regina, and somehow she’d managed to anticipate him. 

Panic rose in his gullet, climbing his throat to choke him. What was he supposed to do? He was trapped here, the only man aware that they were all imprisoned in their own personal hell. Was this curse going to end someday, or would it go on until the last citizen of Storybrooke succumbed to old age? The image of an elderly Grace on her deathbed, mourning a life of ignorant misery, nearly brought him to his knees. 

So fixated was he on his own distress that he didn’t notice the black-haired teacher in front of him until he walked into her. Her armload of books tumbled to the ground. He really needed to start watching where he was going; at this rate he was going to bump into every last person here before the year was out.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” he apologized.

“No, no, it was my fault.” The woman’s eyes were downcast as she stooped over to pick up her books, her shoulders hunched as though she expected him to rage at her. 

“It really wasn’t,” he assured her, kneeling down to help. “I wasn’t watching… where… I was…” He trailed off.

There on the ground was the same brown, leather bound book that held her entranced every morning on the way to work. He hadn’t given much thought to the book, apart from wondering why a schoolteacher would be so absorbed in a picture book she’d no doubt be reading aloud to her students in a few hours.

He was interested now. The book had fallen open to a random page. The print wasn’t what grabbed his attention. Rather, it was the illustration on the other side.

There, staring up at him with horrified eyes, was a blurry image of his own face. 

He recognized the moment he’d been condemned to his oversized cell in Wonderland, cursed - figuratively - to craft hat after hat after hat, vainly hoping that this one would work.

Before he could get a closer look, the woman - a Miss Blanchard, if he remembered correctly - scooped it up and hurried off with a mumbled apology. 

Jefferson stared after her, his jaw set with determination. Okay. So finding Rumplestiltskin had been a dead end. That didn’t mean that nothing could be done. He had a new goal now: learn as much as he could about the citizens of Storybrooke, and see if there was some weakness he could exploit - either in Regina’s defenses, or in the curse itself.

First things first: he had to get his hands on that book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 up! I don't know where/how far I'm going with this, but I'm having a good time with this. If anybody has any requests for a character you'd like to see Jefferson interact with more, feel free to hit me up here or on Tumblr.


	3. Chapter 3

Jefferson was slowly learning the rules of this hellscape he found himself in.

The day after his disappointing encounter with Rumpelstiltskin - with Mr. Gold, rather - had been a Carroll day. He’d put so much hope into finding the Dark One that finding him reduced to some sort of landlord/loan shark had left Jefferson too shaken to put up a fight in his morning struggle for dominance over his cursed self. The next day he’d fought and lost. Finally, three days after his failure, he’d wrested control back. His first thought when he came back to himself:  _ I need to get that book. _

His first temptation was to simply walk up to the schoolteacher, Miss Blanchard, take the book from her by force if necessary, and abscond with it back to his manor, where he could read it at his leisure. But if he did that, he’d be practically begging Storybrooke’s sheriff to arrest him. And if the book was just going to be magically returned to its owner overnight, he couldn’t afford to waste time.

Ha. He couldn’t afford to waste time. He had nothing  _ but _ time to waste. Still. He didn’t relish spending any more time locked in a cell with the town drunk. And so, he’d spent the past few weeks simply observing and planning.

For a while, he’d been convinced that he was in some sort of… repeating day. Like a time loop. Events seemed to repeat nearly identically every day. Every morning, like clockwork, Archie Hopper walked his dog around the same circuit before opening his office, carrying a black umbrella whether it was going to rain or not. The scantily-clad waitress put out the diner’s sandwich board at the same time, and Miss Blanchard always read from the same picture book - one that shouldn’t take any literate adult more than a day to complete. 

Of course, none of those things necessarily indicated a time loop. Jefferson’s other self understood how this world worked - specifically, how this world was ruled by numbers on a clock rather than the position of the sun. People measured their entire lives by the clock - not unlike a certain rabbit he’d had the misfortune of meeting in Wonderland. 

But there were other hints. For instance, a group of seven short, stoutly built men who had the same bickering argument every day. One of them would bring up the surly one’s drinking. He would mention the pharmacist’s incessant sneezing. The pharmacist would accuse another of sleeping through his duties. And so on, and so forth.

Then there was the way everything seemed to reset every morning. The boards he’d ripped from the abandoned library’s windows. The townsfolk’s memories of him. His transportation from a jail cell back to his bed. And most intriguing of all, the disappearance of the sheriff’s wounds the day after Jefferson had broken his nose. He couldn’t help wondering about that. How far did that go? Were there limits to what sort of injuries would be healed? If someone was near death at the moment the world reset itself, was the magic strong enough to restore them to health?

And what if someone died? Jefferson didn’t know much about magic, but one thing was definitely certain: magic couldn’t bring back the dead. Did the same rules apply here?

Well, whatever the rules were, they didn’t apply to him. The morning after his one-sided reunion with his Grace, he’d woken up with sore balls from where she’d kicked him, as well as the bruises and scrapes from Sheriff Humbert’s rough treatment during his arrest. Whatever Regina had done to him specifically to torment him, it didn’t afford him the same protection given to the rest of the town. He’d have to be careful, lest he wind up either maimed or dead.

In any case, eventually he’d figured out that it wasn’t a time loop. For one thing, Mr. Gold only came by once a month to collect rent. For another, the weather wasn’t the same every day. Finally, one morning when he was observing Miss Blanchard’s daily routine, she’d failed to leave her apartment at the normal time. At first he’d assumed she was sick. But Dr. Hopper hadn’t gone to his office after walking his dog, and the diner had opened an hour later than usual. Consulting with his other self taught him the concept of a “weekend” - two days when many people didn’t have to work. They took those days to catch up on housework, run errands, or simply relax. 

Sounded like a luxury to him. Back in the Enchanted Forest, there was no such thing as a day off. A day spent resting instead of foraging, checking his snares for animals, and tending his tiny garden could mean the difference between eating and starving. He could handle a few days without food, but he’d be damned if he ever let his Grace go hungry because he wanted to  _ relax _ . 

It seemed like it was a luxury in this world, as well. Based on Jefferson’s observations, many people still worked on the weekends. Those people mostly tended to work the lowest-paying jobs. His memories from this world filled in the blanks of just how little those jobs paid, and how impossible it was to make a living on so little without taking a second job. Leisure time was a privilege many couldn’t afford. It seemed the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

So. He had to find a way to get that book at a time when the woman wouldn’t notice its absence right away. Preferably sometime in the morning - no later than early afternoon. He wanted as much time with the book as he could get before the curse returned it to her possession and he had to steal it all over again. That meant either sneaking into school somehow and pilfering it from her bag while she taught, or finding a good time to sneak into her apartment on the weekend when she wasn’t around.

A day spent patrolling the school convinced him that the weekend would be better. His clothes weren’t exactly made to blend in, and he’d garnered many strange looks from both students and staff the one time he’d ventured inside. There was no way he could get in and out of her classroom undetected.

And so, he’d spent a weekend tailing Miss Blanchard - whose first name (names?) was Mary Margaret - learning her routine. He’d spent Saturday taking notes of every move she made, marking down every time and location. On Sunday, he ran into a snag. The notepad with his observations was completely blank. Of course. Everything else reverted to its previous state overnight. Why wouldn’t his notes? So he tried writing his notes on his arm. When he awoke on Monday morning, the ink was gone - probably returned to the pen he’d used.

What a waste of time. He chafed at the delay. He’d already missed a year of Grace’s life when he was trapped in Wonderland. Even thinking of the inch or two she’d grown in that time made his heart ache. Every day that he wasn’t reunited with her was another milestone missed: inches grown, baby teeth lost, tea parties held. If he didn’t find a way out of this curse soon, he could miss her entire childhood. That thought terrified him more than anything Regina could throw at him.

Which brought him to today - Monday. If he was stuck waiting until the weekend, he might as well make the best use of his time. First things first: he needed tools if he was going to break into Mary Margaret’s apartment. Since his lockpicking tools hadn’t made the trek over from Wonderland, and he hadn’t found a Thieves ‘R’ Us store in his wanderings around Storybrooke, he’d have to get inventive. He’d have to rely on both his real memories and his cursed ones to pull this off.

His first stop was Storybrooke Hardware and Paint. Stepping through the glass door, Jefferson blinked as his eyes adjusted from bright sunlight to the harsh fluorescent lighting of the store. The familiar smell of sawdust mixed with more astringent smells of paint and chemical solvents. 

This was unfamiliar territory for both of him (both of them? Whatever). Jefferson was good with his hands, and had learned some basic carpentry out of necessity; his cottage in the Enchanted Forest needed occasional repairs, and he didn’t have the money to pay someone else to do it. But he had no knowledge of this world’s tools. Carroll knew more about the world’s technology, but had no experience with today’s hardware than Jefferson did. More importantly, he had no experience with breaking and entering. Jefferson did.

He wandered up and down the aisles, searching for something that could get him through the locked door of Mary Margaret’s apartment. There were obvious solutions. A crowbar could pry the door open. And there were large, two-handed hammers -  _ sledgehammers _ \- that would probably knock the damn thing clear off its hinges if swung with enough force.

But forcing the door open would alert Mary Margaret to the fact that she’d been burgled right away. If possible, he’d like her to return home completely unaware that anything was missing. The less attention he called to himself, the better. Besides, he’d been breaking into places built to keep him out for years, sneaking in and out before anyone was the wiser. The idea of hammering his way in like an ogre was a blow to his pride.

But no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t find anything remotely resembling lockpicks. He couldn’t make his own; while he knew what shape the tools should take, he was no smith. Besides, it wasn’t like he had access to a forge.

He paused next to a display of hoops of metal wire. The gauge of the wire was far too thick to fit through this world’s keyholes… but he was on to something. If he could find thinner wire, something fine enough to fit through a lock but strong enough to hold its shape under pressure… all he’d need was a pair of pliers to shape them with.

No matter how hard he searched, he couldn’t seem to find either item. With a resigned shrug, he headed back to the front of the store, to the customer service desk. A sullen teenage girl, dressed all in black except for her red work vest, leaned her forearms on the counter, shoulders hunched. Her wavy, silver-dyed hair curled around her shoulders, and her eyes and lips were painted coal-black. A silver pendant of a goat head juxtaposed over a five-pointed star dangled from her neck. The small white nametag on her vest supplied her name: Ariana.

“Welcome to Storybrooke Hardware and Paint, how may I help you?” she grumbled.

Jefferson gave her his most winning smile. “Hey there. I was hoping you could help me find a few things. Think you could point me in the right direction?”

“No.”

He blinked. He didn’t expect retail workers to kiss his ass, but her customer service manner was downright frigid. Well, a little flattery couldn’t hurt. “I’d really appreciate any help you could give,” he wheedled. “I’m pretty helpless with this stuff. I bet you're much handier than I am.”

If her earlier refusal was frigid, her glower was downright glacial. “Is that supposed to be funny?” she demanded. 

“What? No, I only thought--”

“Thought you could come in and make that same tired joke? Well, here.” She slapped her right hand against the counter. It made a peculiar  _ thunk _ . Leaning her other elbow on top of it, she yanked her right arm back, and - 

_ And her fucking hand came off. _

He jumped back with a harsh intake of breath. Without pause, she repeated the process with her left hand. Picking them up with her… with her stumps… she dumped both dismembered hands on the counter in front of him.

“There,” she snapped. “Now you’re  _ handier _ than me. Satisfied?”

His eyes were riveted on her hands, which he now saw were fake. Very convincing fakes, he corrected himself, made with some material that closely mimicked human flesh. Silicone, his cursed self helpfully guessed.

“I - I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” he stammered, still thrown for a loop. When a person lost a limb in the Enchanted Forest, they didn’t get realistic-looking fakes. If they were on a mage’s or fairy’s good side, they got their limb magicked back on - for a price. Always for a price. Otherwise, they either got a wooden replacement, or learned to do without. And the cursed side of him, to Jefferson’s shame, was a shallow, superficial bastard. He only surrounded himself with his ideal of beauty and perfection. Carroll would have looked at this girl, Ariana, with disgust.

But that wasn’t him, he reminded himself. The arrogant, flamboyant fashion designer was an invention of Regina’s curse - not his true self. Right? He was Jefferson. Former thief and world-jumper. Loving father. Just because he couldn’t be with his daughter, didn’t mean that part of him ceased to exist.

As he looked at the young girl - really looked, past the black attire and blacker looks - he saw pain. The father in him rebelled at the notion. Just what kind of hellscape had Regina consigned them all to, where a teenage girl had to lash out just to keep from being ridiculed for her disability? He couldn’t let that stand. What kind of father - what kind of  _ person _ would he be if he ignored a young girl who was hurting?

Ariana was fumbling with her hands, now, lining a socket in her wrist up with a small peg at the end of her prosthesis.

“Do you need a… do you need help?” Jefferson asked, mentally cursing himself for his near slip of the tongue.

Her eyes narrowed; she hadn’t missed it. “I do this every morning,” she snapped. “I think I can handle it.” She glared at him, daring him to comment.

He held his hands up in a placating gesture. “You’re right, you’re right,” he agreed. “I mean it, though. I didn’t know. I really just wanted help finding a couple of things.”

“Oh.” She finished reattaching her second hand, carefully adjusting and rotating it into place. “What did you need?” She still sounded sullen, but no longer openly hostile.

“Pliers,” he replied, “and some kind of metal wire. The stuff you’ve got in aisle four is too thick. I need something thin enough to slide into a narrow hole, but strong enough to hold any shape I bend it to.”

She eyed him up and down, taking in his tailored designer clothes and carefully coiffed hair. “...Right,” she finally said. “Well, pliers are down at the end of aisle six. As for the wire… depends what you need it for.”

Shit. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He scrambled to come up with a good lie. “Dropped my wedding ring down the drain,” he lied. “I was hoping to make a hook so I could fish it out.”

Eyebrows raised skeptically, she shook her head. “You’d be better off removing the P-trap from under the sink. Chances are the ring is caught in there. Much quicker than trying to fish it out.” She eyed him with a sidelong glance. “Wanna try again?”

Shit. Was he really that obvious? Telling her the truth wouldn’t harm much; at worst, if she called the cops, it would set him back a day before everyone’s memories were reverted. But he’d still rather take the careful approach. “You got me,” he conceded, spreading his hands wide in surrender. “I locked my keys out of my car. I was hoping I could jimmy the lock with some wire.”

“Uh huh.” She didn’t look remotely convinced. “Like I said, needle-nose pliers are at the end of aisle six. We don’t have any wire here that’ll help you. But… I’ve heard paperclips can work. You know, for that kinda thing. You can get a box at Dark Star Pharmacy.”

Paperclips. He called the image into his mind: thin bits of twisted wire used to hold sheets of paper together. They were a bit flimsy, but should be easy to shape. They’d probably do in a pinch. 

“Thanks. You’ve been a huge help.” He looked at her uncertainly. She was clearly unhappy working here. What was a teenage girl doing working here during the day, anyway? “Shouldn’t you be in school?” he asked.

“Nope. Dropped out so I could work.”

“Don’t your parents want you to graduate?”

Ariana snorted humorlessly, giving his clothes another once-over. “Spoken like somebody who doesn’t have to worry about where their next meal comes from.”

Jefferson flinched. He should’ve known better. In his last days before his fateful trip through the hat with Regina, he’d started making a game with Grace of foraging through the woods: finding mushrooms, picking berries, gathering tinder for the fire, and so forth. He’d hated the necessity; if he had his way, his Grace would want for nothing for her entire life.

But just moments ago, he’d forgotten all of that. Instead he recalled a childhood in a house not unlike his gaudy manor on the outskirts of town. He remembered overpaid tutors, “gifts” to teachers who might be grading him too harshly, and a wing donated to the college in New York, where he’d learned fashion design. That side of him hadn’t  _ needed _ to work a day in his life.

That was unsettling, to say the least. Until now, his cursed memories never overrode his real ones once he won his daily battle of wills in the morning. He’d need to consider the implications of that later.

“There has to be something your parents can do,” he said. “Get a second job, or take out a loan.  _ Something. _ ”

Any good humor he might have garnered with the girl vanished in an instant. “Listen, asshole, if you wanna tell my dad to take on a  _ third _ job to support the two of us, be my guest,” she snapped. “And as for a loan? Why do you think we’re struggling in the first place? Dad had to pay my hospital bills, and Mr. Gold was only too happy to help. I’m just surprised the creepy bastard didn’t have dad sign me over as collateral.” She gestured broadly toward the entrance with one motionless hand. “So unless you’re planning on paying off our loan, or maybe, I dunno,  _ buying something _ instead of wasting my time, you can get the hell out.”

Jefferson chose the latter, sheepishly hurrying out of the store with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He should probably be searching town for a few other things he’d need for his upcoming break-in. Gloves, for one thing, so he didn’t leave fingerprints, and running shoes in case he got caught. His other self’s fussy wardrobe didn’t have a single practical shoe or boot in sight.

But as he walked down Main Street in the blustery autumn wind, he found he wasn’t in the mood. He couldn’t get Ariana’s angry blue eyes out of his head. Just as bad - he couldn’t shake the feeling that in five or six years, Grace might be put in a similar situation: forced to give up on her dreams in favor of an underpaying, thankless job to pay off a never ending debt to Mr. Gold.

If there had been any doubt in his mind that Rumpelstiltskin was just as cursed as the rest of the town, this clinched it. The Dark One was a ruthless deal maker and an utter bastard, but Jefferson had seen his soft spot for kids firsthand. If a father had come to him begging for a loan for his daughter’s hands, he would’ve found some way to give the money without getting a cent in return, and made it seem like a pure accident. Rumpelstiltskin, underneath the bluster and unnerving titters, was a man in snake’s skin. It seemed Mr. Gold was just the opposite.

Frustration churned in Jefferson’s gut, made his hands shake in his pockets. What really got him - what really pissed him off - was that he had the money to make a difference in this town. He could head to the bank, withdraw a fat wad of cash, and make it rain in Mr. Gold’s pawn shop so that young girl could go back to school and get prosthetics with actual moving fingers. And then tomorrow, the curse would rewind everything he did. The money would be right back in his bank account, rotting away untouched. Ariana would still have to work to keep a roof over her head, and nothing at all would change.

He shook his head to clear it. He couldn’t let himself get attached to these people. They were all in the same boat he was, with the added mercy of not realizing that there was any curse to escape. He couldn’t let himself get distracted by their plights. He was a thief, a mushroom seller, and a hatter. Not a hero, or a savior. The cards were stacked against him as it was. If he was to have any chance at all of getting himself and his daughter out of this hellhole, he needed to kill any part of himself that felt compassion for these people. 

He took a deep breath.  _ Focus. Gather information. Make a plan. And get it to work. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So originally I was going to have this be the chapter where Jefferson breaks into Mary Margaret's apartment, but then I got sidetracked by his interaction with Ariana (who, if you're wondering, is The Girl with No Hands from the Brothers Grimm fairy tale). I didn't want to overshadow that with the break-in, so I ended the chapter early. Plus this gives me more time to Google more about breaking and entering. I'm probably on a list somewhere of sketchy-ass individuals because of my search history.
> 
> If there are any fairy tale/folklore figures you'd like to see me play around with, you can hit me up in the comments, or on my Tumblr (deliriumsdelight7.tumblr.com).


End file.
